


New Man

by Swiftsure



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Dry Humping, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-27 11:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19790077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swiftsure/pseuds/Swiftsure
Summary: “Change your suit,” Boris says at once.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this fic owes a massive debt to Foxhole by gwinny3k. I have reread that fic so many times and I highly recommend it to anyone who hasn't yet.
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm sorry if there are any glaring errors in this with regards to how the government of the Soviet Union worked!

Boris gets the call about the leak as he's getting dressed.

He spends the next hour on the phone trying to find the source, trying to see what can be done to contain the damage, pacing the hotel room, trailing the phone cord behind him, attempting to coordinate the activities of different departments in Moscow.

“Boris Shcherbina,” he repeats into the phone. 

Ryzhkov's secretary gives him the same answer as before:

_“I'm afraid the First Deputy Chairman is unavailable at the moment.”_

There's a phone mounted on the wall at the end of the corridor and Boris posts a soldier there before heading to Valery's room.

“Change your suit,” he says at once upon seeing the man.

Valery holds the door open, blinking at him. He's not yet put his jacket on, but Boris can see from the grey trousers he's wearing that it's a creased suit he's worn already. 

“Do you have everything prepared?” Boris steps into the room, taking in the breakfast tray on the coffee table, the open notebook and loose pages Valery has been working on.

“Yes,” Valery begins, “And actually, I wanted to talk to you - ”

“Not now.” Boris checks his watch. “Be ready to leave in an hour.”

Valery resumes his seat on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, pen in his hand. His hair is neatly combed, still damp from his shower. He looks neat enough in his shirt and braces. “Everything alright?” he says carefully, peering up at Boris.

“Fine.”

Boris goes back out into the corridor.

“Comrade Shcherbina,” the soldier calls from the phone station. “Call for you - ”

“Why the hell didn't you come and get me?” Boris grabs the phone from him.

For the next fifteen minutes he has Nikolai Ryzhkov shouting in his ear.

“I understand. I understand,” Boris says, his voice flat and emotionless. “Yes, Comrade-Chairman.”

“You plug this fucking leak before any more gets out,” Ryzhkov says. 

“I have a report to deliver to the General Secretary this morning, but I assure you, after that - ”

“The General Secretary would want this prioritized. It's come out of your division, you damn well root it out - ”

“Certainly, Comrade-Chairman,” Boris says. A click in his ear as Ryzhkov cuts the call.

Boris looks out window at the bright morning for a moment, the empty car park below. His reflection glowers back at him in the glass. 

He stalks down the corridor. The door to Valery's room stands open. Inside, Pavlenko, one of the soldiers, is removing Valery's breakfast tray while Valery sits with his head in his hand, smoking, frowning down at his notes.

“Why haven't you changed?” Boris barks.

Valery looks up in surprise, then down at himself.

“You were serious?” he says.

Boris indicates the navy blue suit hanging on the wardrobe door, still in its dry cleaning plastic.

“That one. It's ironed.” Boris turns away.

“Wait, Boris,” Valery says.

Pavlenko carries the tray out carefully and quickly past Boris, striving to be unobtrusive, and for a flickering moment of rage Boris wants to knock the tray out of his hands.

“I need to talk to you about these numbers you gave me,” Valery says as he stands from the sofa.

“We can discuss it in the car,” Boris says.

“Well, it's rather urgent - ”

“Change,” Boris says. He goes back to his room and makes a final phone call. 

Then it's nearly time to go. He tucks his notes into his breast pocket, pulls on his coat. 

In Valery's room, he finds the man now dressed in the blue suit, gathering up his papers in a leather binder.

Valery keeps one page in his hand, and he holds it out to Boris as he straightens.

"I will not present these numbers," he says, quietly, because the door behind Boris is open.

Boris stands unmoving for a moment. Then he holds out his hand and Valery gives him the paper. Boris scans it. It's the figures Charkov gave him to put in their report.

"This came from the Lubyanka," Boris says.

"I don't care where they came from." Valery indicates the paper with a dip of his chin. "That's not reality."

"Gorbachev will hear these numbers because he wants to hear these numbers."

"The KGB may want him to hear them - "

"Gorbachev already knows these are not the real figures," Boris says impatiently.

Valery squints at him. "Then I'm - what - repeating his own numbers back to him? For what possible purpose?" 

“For the benefit of the party officials in that council room. These numbers can change tomorrow, but today, they are the numbers. They will be in your report.”

Valery releases a breath, almost a laugh. “No.”

Boris looks at him sharply.

“Boris - ”

“You do not want to fight with me today, Valery.” Boris hands the paper back to him and steps away.

“I won't do it,” Valery says, more loudly. “Maybe this is normal to you. I'm a physicist, I'm not a trained dog jumping through hoops. These numbers, they _mean_ something - ”

Boris turns around and seizes Valery by the lapel of his jacket and shoves him hard into the wall, a sudden explosive violence. Valery is so unprepared for it he staggers and nearly falls. His binder slips out of his hand, pages spilling out onto the floor.

“A trained dog?” Boris repeats, grabbing Valery's jacket in both his hands, hauling him up the wall. 

Valery's face is slack with shock, his eyes staring at Boris like Boris has gone mad.

“I - I didn't mean - ”

“You do not talk to me like that,” Boris says. “I've given you too much freedom. You think I am a soft man, that you can talk to me like that?”

“No, no - ”

“Have you ever been inside an execution room?” Boris leans close, his nose almost touching Valery's. “I have. If you do not want to _jump through hoops_ , they'll find someone else who does. You will do what is required of you. Do you understand?”

Valery's mouth moves wordlessly.

“Do you understand?” 

“Ah - yes.” Valery tucks his chin down, his eyes flickering away. He is not a man who has fought with his fists as Boris has. Even this small threat of violence has shaken him.

Trofimov, the other soldier, arrives quickly at the door and then stops in place.

Boris slowly releases Valery and Valery leans his shoulder into the wall, leans away from Boris stiffly, his face averted. Boris has shocked him. Good. _Good_ \- let someone shock him, knock some sense into him. He has no idea how close he walks to the edge.

“Have the car ready,” Boris says to the soldier. The man retreats with a nod.

Boris goes and stands out in the corridor. He can hear Valery picking up his papers.

A third soldier stands waiting at the elevator, his face perfectly indifferent.

They ride the lift down in silence. Valery stands a little in front of Boris, his back straight, his leather binder tucked under his arm.

*

Boris paces the expansive lobby of the Kremlin. He checks his watch. They were supposed to make their report an hour ago.

“Comrade Shcherbina.” 

Boris turns. He recognises the man coming towards him - one of Ryzhkov's men. 

So, I have run out of time, Boris thinks. There will be no way to refuse. The leak will need seeing to today. Now.

Boris retraces his steps through the winding labyrinth of the building. He hastens down the long white corridor to the waiting area, and there is Valery right where he left him, sat alone on the sofa.

Valery rises when he sees him, bracing himself, his hand smoothing down his tie, adjusting the drape of his jacket.

"You're going to have to give the report on your own," Boris says. "I have to see to my office. It can't wait any longer."

Valery absorbs this. “How long do you think you'll be?”

“I don't know.” Boris looks away. He looks at him again. “Say only what we discussed.”

Valery nods stiffly. 

“I mean it, Valery.”

“Yes, I know.” Valery looks wilted, his reddish hair somewhat limp, he looks Boris briefly in the eye, a wincing sort of nod, pleading almost that Boris not revisit the subject. “You made your point.” 

Boris looks Valery over a final time and Valery give another small nod, his jaw firm, trying to show Boris he has it in hand. 

Boris leaves him there. 

Ryzhkov's man is waiting for him down in the lobby. There's a car outside, the door held open for him. Boris climbs into the back seat.

He's still seeing Valery in his mind's eye as the car pulls away, standing in the opulent Kremlin corridor in his navy suit, the leather binder under his arm, his determined but worried look. Alone. Not since their first meeting has Boris felt so uneasy about leaving the man alone. If he says the wrong thing to the wrong person, if he makes any attempt to speak with Charkov again -

It's several minutes driving through the city before Boris remembers and reaches quickly into his breast pocket. He finds his notes there still. He can't remember if he gave Valery his copy.

He settles back stiffly in his seat. Too late to do anything about it now.

*

It's nighttime when Boris finally gets back to the Polissay.

He rides the lift up, goes straight to Valery's door and knocks. 

He gets no answer. 

He knocks again, and again there is no answer.

He looks up and down the corridor. His men should be here.

A solider he does not recognise appears from round the corner.

“Where is Professor Legasov?” Boris says sharply.

“They took him downstairs - ”

“Who took him?”

The lift chimes at the other end of the corridor. The doors part, revealing Valery, a soldier either side of him.

Boris stops in place, then strides to the lift.

Valery has his coat folded over his arm.

He quirks an eyebrow at Boris as he steps from the lift, faintly bemused. “Hello.”

“Why aren’t you in your room?”

“I went to the base,” Valery says. “Nothing serious. General Pikalov needed me to sign an order.”

Boris takes his key from his pocket and opens the door to his own room. He gestures for Valery to go inside.

“Did you think I’d been removed?” Valery says quietly.

Boris holds the door open. “Go on.”


	2. Chapter 2

Valery precedes Boris into the dark room.

Boris nods to the soldiers in the lift, and the older of the two touches the brim of his hat in a salute, then presses the button to close the doors. Doubtless they will see out the remainder of their shift in the concierge lounge downstairs, playing cards.

“Do you want to know how it went?” Valery says, laying his coat over the back of one of the arm chairs. 

Boris shuts the door behind him. He doesn't turn on the light. The curtains are still open from that morning, the glass washed in a watery orange glow from the lamps in the parking lot. 

Valery slides his hands into his pockets and glances over his shoulder at Boris, the light glinting off his glasses, his features shadowy in the gloom.

“I already received a most encouraging phone call about your report from the General Secretary's office,” Boris says, going to the rickety little drinks trolley and setting out two glasses.

Valery huffs a quiet laugh. “Ah. I'm glad to hear it,” he murmurs, irony and unhappiness plain in his voice. “Thank you,” he adds when Boris holds up the bottle of vodka inquiringly.

Boris pours them both drinks, hands one to him, holds up his own in a silent toast which Valery returns.

“How was it with you?” Valery asks a little hoarsely after taking a swallow.

Boris downs his in one go. Sets his glass on the tray and refills it.

“Switch on that lamp, will you?” he says.

Valery looks around, then locating the standing lamp in the corner, leans over and turns it on. His reflection springs bright out of the darkness in the window, he stands with a hand in his pocket, holding his glass to his chest. Boris glances at that reflection for a moment as he screws the cap back on the vodka, then he reaches up and draws the curtains closed. 

There's a radio on the side table by the sofa. Boris carries his glass over there and drinks more leisurely as he turns the radio on and adjusts the dial. He lands on a classical station and slowly eases up the volume.

He turns and finds Valery watching him with puzzlement.

Boris moves closer to him, speaking in an undertone while the string music swells, 

“I have a spy in my Bureau.”

Valery's eyebrows shoot up.

“It was only discovered today,” Boris goes on. “They've been producing material for Western Intelligence. Whoever they were, they had access to one of the heads of the KGB station within my department.”

“Christ, Boris,” Valery mutters. “They're not holding you accountable for this?”

“We are all accountable. The spy was smuggling out microfilm for months - instructions direct from the Lubyanka - and distributing it to the British. We're hunting them, but...if we aren't subtle in our search, they'll realize we know and slip away.”

“But you have enough to think about here. How can they expect you to - ”

“It's my Bureau,” Boris says fiercely. “I tell you this so that you might understand - that the rest of the country does not grind to a halt because of Chernobyl. It seems like it to us. Out here.” He gestures with his glass to the miserable little room. “But the world is still turning, Valera.”

“I know it is.”

“These people are not scientists. Their job is the preservation of the Party. Any threat will be eliminated. You need to understand the danger you are in when you challenge orders - ”

“I have a better understanding of the _danger_ than anyone at that table.” 

“I'm not talking about radiation. Five years, you said? Does that seem like too much time? Are you trying to find some other way out?” 

Valery's mouth falls open. “Of course not - ”

“Would it be easier than doing your job?” 

“Of course not,” Valery repeats, angry now.

“Then play the game.”

“I'm trying,” Valery says, too loudly. The music can only conceal so much.

Boris frowns at him and Valery shakes his head, angry and also apologetic. They say nothing more for a moment. The music plays. Boris empties his glass, and Valery follows suit. Boris takes his glass from him. He sets both glasses back on the drinks trolley.

He rubs his mouth, comes back to stand in front of Valery. He sighs.

Valery is watching him, his mouth bullish and downturned, he's perhaps expecting Boris to resume the argument.

“This morning,” Boris says instead. “I took out my frustration on you. I was angry about the intelligence leak. I had no business being rough with you.”

The line of Valery's mouth softens. He tucks his chin down, almost demure.

“I can understand why you were...frustrated,” he says.

“Nevertheless. It was badly done,” Boris says. “You don't need a heavy hand.”

“No.” Valery pauses. Then he says again, bitterly, “No. I don't. It doesn’t take much at all, as it turns out.” He smiles grimly at Boris. “Some things are unpleasant to learn about yourself.”

“Valera,” Boris laughs a gravelly laugh, feeling a sudden rush of fondness for the man. “You're not a coward. But in this case, fear is appropriate. You already know this. I do not want you talking to Charkov again. Let me handle him.”

“That just places you in more danger. If the choice is between you raising a dispute with the KGB, or me, a - a naive idiot, surely - ” 

“Do you think I don't know my own business?” An edge comes into Boris' voice. “That I need you to do my work?”

“No. No,” Valery says with quiet frustration. He sits down on the sofa, removes his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly. “I am not trying to insult you.”

His soft-spoken weariness, his civility, extinguishes whatever spark of indignation had caught in Boris' breast.

Boris sits down beside him with a grunt. “Only say that if you plan to speak up, you will tell me first.”

Valery returns his glasses to his face. He rests his head back against the sofa. "Alright." 

"You say that," Boris says. "But then you get into that room and your mouth runs away. You become like a - terrier harrying a bear.”

Valery turns his head against on the sofa, looking at Boris. He pushes his lips out slightly, his brows puckered, skeptical. "My impression was that...references to dogs were lately prohibited."

Boris laughs. He reaches over and pats Valery's leg and he leaves his hand resting on Valery's thigh. He turns his head away with a sigh. 

The change in the air between them comes a moment later. It's tension, pouring off Valery.

 _Ah,_ Boris thinks.

He stares ahead at the far wall with hooded eyes. He does not move his hand. He finds he is not so surprised as he might have been. He's had his suspicions about Legasov. A combination of professional rapport, many hours spent working closely together, the stress of their situation - no, Boris is not so surprised.

The music subsides and a woman's voice pleasantly reads off the title of the piece and the composer. Valery's thigh is warm under his hand. 

“That's probably enough of the radio,” Boris murmurs. He takes his hand away and stands up. He turns the radio off. The room is then absolutely quiet.

“Well. I think I'll go and shower.” Valery pushes himself up from the low sofa and starts to button his jacket.

Boris catches his arm. 

There is a frayed patch in the fabric of Valery's trousers, just under one of the belt loops.

“What happened there?” Boris points to it.

“Oh. They're old. It's...why I didn't want to wear them this morning.”

“The jacket covers it.”

“Yes.”

Boris passes his thumb over the jut of Valery's hipbone. 

Valery steps away from him. He does it too quickly, betraying himself. He turns away from Boris and then just stands like that, facing away from him, as if he doesn't know what to do next. 

After a pause, he half-turns his face, speaking in profile into the quiet of the room,

“I'm - sorry.”

“Would you like the radio back on?” Boris says.

Valery makes no reply. Boris looks at the back of his head, the almost boyish lick of hair at the nape his neck, the defensive hunch of his shoulders as he buttons his jacket.

Boris realises that the man is frightened. 

“Valery.”

Valery does turn then. “Sorry,” he says again, clipped and polite. He won't look at Boris. 

Boris turns the radio on. A new symphony is playing. 

“Do you like Shostakovich?” Boris asks quietly. He goes to Valery and opens the button on his jacket. He brushes the back of his hand slowly over the bulge in Valery's trousers, softens his knuckles. It could almost be accidental, but he does it again, slowly, rubbing the back of his hand gently against the man's cock. He can be gentle.

He slips his hands under Valery's jacket, gathers him close. Valery's hand grips Boris' arm as he bumps into him, steadies himself. They stand pressed close, chest to chest. Now they know one another. It's a hot bolt through Boris, the feeling of another man's stiff prick pressed up against him, a shocking intimacy, a jolt like some violence might be about to occur. It's been some years since Boris' last indulgence.

Valery stares him in the eye for a wordless moment. Then he withdraws clumsily. Boris lets him go.

Valery steps back, still staring, dazed.

“I had a little much to drink, perhaps,” Boris says mildly. He opens his hands to Valery, to show him he won't hurt him. “My mistake.”

He doesn't think he is mistaken.

Valery looks at the curtained window. He looks back at Boris. 

Boris waits.

Valery comes haltingly to him, like a sleepwalker. 

Boris doesn't reach for him. He lets Valery come right to him.

Valery touches the lapel of Boris' jacket, carefully holds it aside, looks down, at the evidence of Boris' arousal.

“Well, Valera?” Boris says. Valery allows Boris to take his hand. He allows Boris to guide it to his cock. Boris gently cups Valery's hand there, lets him feel for himself what he's dealing with.

“Don't look so surprised,” Boris says.

Valery gives a slight shake of his head.

“I didn't think...” His voice is frail, parched, his hand touching Boris.

“You didn't think... _I was so sweet on you?_ ” Boris finishes, teasing him. Valery pauses, gives him a look from behind his glasses that's full of censure, his eyebrow arched, almost headmasterly, but his hand moves on his cock, feeling the shape of him. Then with pure masculinity in his movements, Valery's hands work open Boris' button and fly, business-like, the glint of metal of his watch peaking from under his shirt cuff. 

Boris strokes his hand flat up Valery's torso. There, Valery falters. Boris feels the shape of his breast, brushes his thumb over his nipple through his shirt and his undershirt, he tucks his hand along the curve of his ribs companionably.

Valery lets his arms go to his sides, his hands empty and artless, he lowers his eyes, his face flushed. He stands there, strangely passive, and Boris takes the opportunity to pet his neck, rub his chest again, slow, run his hand over him. Valery's dress shirt rasps under the caress of his palm. It intrigues Boris, that just touching Valery in this frank way seems to have disarmed him.

Valery finally he lifts his head and he's flushed and slow, saying nothing. When Boris strokes his thumb across his lips, Valery shuts his eyes against it, his mouth gone soft, for a moment something naked in his expression, something more than Boris thinks the man would like him to see. 

Valery comes back to himself, frowning, clearing his throat.

“I...” He clears his throat again. He looks down at Boris' hand still resting on his chest, like he's not convinced of what he's seeing.


	3. Chapter 3

Boris takes his jacket off. After a moment Valery does the same. Boris takes their jackets and lays them both on the bed.

"I haven't...with a man. For some time," Valery says. "It's been some time." 

"For me as well." Boris moves close to him.

"I would never have - " Valery puts his hands nervously in his pockets, steps back, then catching himself doing it he stands still and lets Boris come close. "You don't seem that way," Valery says. "You didn't."

"That's good. That's necessary."

"Yes," Valery says, almost blankly, as Boris puts his hands on his waist. "Forgive me," Valery says. "It's - This is surprising." Boris walks him slowly back a couple of steps, to the desk that stands against the wall. 

"I enjoy surprising you, Professor Legasov," Boris says. 

Valery's mouth turns up at the corner in a shy smile. They are standing together by the desk. Valery flickers a look at Boris' mouth, then he tucks his chin down slightly, in some kind of inner agony of embarrassment that Boris might kiss him.

Boris looks Valery up and down, then takes his arm and motions for him to turn around. "Just for a moment," he says. 

Valery obliges him, turns to the desk almost expectantly, as if there will be some papers there that Boris wants him to look at. Boris moves in close along Valery's back, presses his crotch to Valery's rear. 

Valery's stance is uncertain, tense with the strangeness of this, Boris close against his back. Boris settles his hands on Valery's hips and rubs his cock against the man's arse through their clothes. 

Valery braces one hand heavily on the desk. The action licks a flame of arousal in Boris, that Valery will permit this. 

"Do you mind?" Boris says, his voice raspy.

Valery shakes his head in silence, down in a deep silence in himself. After a moment he lays both his hands flat on the desk.

"You're very good," Boris says quietly, grinding himself lazily into Valery, his hands bracketing his hips. He looks his fill, at the shape of Valery's back under the white shirt and Y-back suspenders, the pale nape of his neck. The dignity of him, his hands on the table - polite almost, it seems, politely holding this faintly absurd pose for Boris, allowing this.

After a moment Valery drops his head. Boris places his hand on the vulnerable nape of his neck, squeezing gently, and it makes Valery soften even more, hang his head low, give himself over to it even more.

"Is it...too vulgar, Valera?" Boris murmurs, concealing a smile, rubbing Valery's neck, then passing his hand lingeringly down his back.

"No," Valery says hoarsely.

Boris turns him round. Valery moves like he's drunk, he slumps back against the desk. 

"No," Boris confirms. He palms Valery through his trousers, feels the wet spot on Valery's trousers at the tip of his penis. "No, you're wet."

Valery meets his eye, draws a sharp breath through his nose, like Boris has slapped him. Boris feels quite drunk himself, leaning into Valery, pinning him against the desk, his hand between them stroking Valery's prick, their mouths close enough to kiss. Boris doesn't kiss him, suspecting that his friend dislikes mouth kisses.

"I am a vulgar man," Boris says. "You'll have to forgive me for that."

"You're not vulgar."

"Oh?" Boris eases back a step. Valery straightens from the desk. Boris puts his hands on Valery's waist, framing his waist the way he would a woman's. Then slowly, he slides his hands down to grope his buttocks. 

"I hope you don't engage in risky behaviour like this often, Valera," Boris says, deadpan, pretending to admonish him.

Valery takes it as a serious question. He has his hand fisted in Boris' shirt under Boris' ribs. 

"I - I don't."

"Then it was not...many times? Like this?" Boris prompts, digging his fingers slow into the cleft of Valery's arse. 

"Christ. Boris." Valery shuts his eyes for a moment. He's knocked by the crude question, but Boris can see he finds it arousing, dealing with such a question while Boris' fingers are bold and insolent, dug in between the meat of his buttocks. Valery sways into him, his hand on Boris' shoulder. 

"I... If you'd like it, I - " Valery's brows are knotted, his attention divided.

"Yes?" Boris says.

“I can... My mouth?” Valery offers in a low voice.

Boris' prick twitches. 

"I'd like to see that," Boris says. "Very much."

*

When Valery goes down on one knee, he hits his knee to the floor with a bit of a thump, graceless.

“Yes,” Boris grunts before Valery has even done anything - just the look of him on his knees, his face so close to Boris' cock hanging out his trousers. 

Boris gives himself a couple of strokes, looking down at his friend.

That face. Valery. Valery, blank and absorbed in bleak calculations in their trailer, his thumbs digging into his forehead; Valery, asleep on an army cot, his glasses dangling from his fingers; Valery, sat opposite him in the helicopter, dusty sunlight full on his face as he looks out the window. Valery, his twin, some kind of double, a shadow he has been bound to in this new world, through these days filled with horror and dread and death. His Virgil, ever at his side, guiding him through this remote and blasted corner of hell. 

It is a dear face, Boris realises. And somehow his cock is centimetres from it. Is it obscene, what he wants to do to this dear face? Does he degrade Valery? If he does, why does it feel quasi-religious? 

Valery shifts closer on his knees and Boris can muster no self-reproach for wanting to rub his cock on that face now looking up at him.

*

"Not so much," Boris says roughly. Valery pulls off him coughing.

It's a challenging, watery look Valery gives from his knees, hot and even surly. Boris remembers shoving this man against the wall that morning, he remembers the look of shock he'd put on Valery's face with his brutishness. The flash of recollection produces a queasy, ugly pulse of arousal in him. He wants to protect this man. He wants to master him. 

Boris adjusts his stance, his smooth-bottomed shoes slippery on the worn hotel carpet. He strokes Valery's head. His prick bobs in front of Valery's face. 

“Valery,” Boris breathes out warningly as the man takes him in his mouth again.

Valery fumbles his belt open. He wants to touch himself while he has Boris' prick in his mouth.

“Christ,” Boris seethes. 

He rests his hand proprietarily on the back of Valery's head as Valery services him. 

It is good. By god, it's too good. This sloppy stop-and-start blowjob, Boris' prick nudging into the back of Valery's soft palate repeatedly like a rude guest, Valery's throat gripping in contractions trying to swallow, squeezing wet and unbelievable on Boris' prick until Valery can take no more and he pulls off with a retching wet cough.

Boris is being driven half-mad with it. His eyes flicker from Valery's wet eyes to his roughly-used mouth. Valery wipes his lips and chin with the heel of his hand. Boris' prick bobs shamelessly, all wet with Valery's saliva, ready for more.

“Not so much, by god,” Boris grits out, even as he's cradling the back of Valery's head, grunting and twitching with pleasure as Valery takes him deep.

It goes on until Valery comes up for air and Boris can take no more, fumbles with himself, tugs at his slippery prick, his jiggling fist wet and right in front of Valery's face. Valery wipes his chin, dishevelled and breathless, almost rakish with his hair fallen across his brow, blushing darkly, his hand busy on his own cock in the open crotch of his trousers. Valery wipes his mouth again, watching Boris stroke himself, he's not expecting it when the splash of seed hits the back his hand and the side of his face.

“I'm sorry,” Boris pants, dribbling all over his knuckles.

Valery doesn't try to wipe it off. He winces and tugs his cock, butts his forehead into Boris' thigh, his arm jogging jerkily. He grabs Boris around the calf and curls up panting like he's been shot.

*

Boris tries to clean Valery up afterwards, produces his handkerchief and attempts to wipe Valery's face, but Valery won't have it. He pushes to his feet with a grunt. Boris hands him the handkerchief. Red-faced and breathless, Valery sits on the bed, his cock still hanging out of his trousers, his spectacles knocked slightly askew. He shakes out the handkerchief and begins to wipe his hand, and Boris looks away, feeling like he's intruding on something.

He leaves Valery to compose himself, goes into the en suite to clean himself up. 

He comes out a little while later, drying his hands on a towel. 

Valery stands wiping a semen stain on his suit trousers. Boris hands him the damp hand towel and Valery wipes his trousers with it, the fabric rasping as he rubs it. He slips into the en suite.

Boris goes and switches off the radio. The silence in the room comes as a relief, though it means their voices will now be audible to the bugs. 

Boris sits down on the bed, exhausted, bends to take off his shoes. 

Valery reemerges from the bathroom, holding his hands out at his sides in defeat of the stain. Boris points to his ear. Valery nods. He reaches for his jacket on the bed and Boris catches his arm and draws him close. Valery comes to stand in front of him. Boris passes his hand over the wet patch on Valery's trousers. Valery huffs out a breath of amusement and nudges his hand away. They're both somewhat punch drunk.

"We should get some sleep," Boris says. "Relaxing as it was listening to the music with you, comrade."

Valery just arches an eyebrow, gives a slight shake of his head. Boris stares at his mouth for a moment.

"It was good to hear music again," Boris adds. "Thank you for...recommending it. Really. I must thank you."

"Ah. Not at all." Valery looks down at his shirt sleeve, tugs it in embarrassment.

Boris hands him up his jacket. Valery drapes it over his arm, hiding the stain.

“Presentable?” Valery says softly.

Boris looks him over lingeringly. “I'd say so.”

Valery nods. “Well. Goodnight, comrade.”

“Goodnight.”

*


End file.
